


Potato Soup Is Best Enjoyed Hot

by maureeeen



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maureeeen/pseuds/maureeeen
Summary: Geralt finds Jaskier in a field and decides to take him home.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	Potato Soup Is Best Enjoyed Hot

**Author's Note:**

> This really isn't anything, but I finished it so I figured why not post it.

There was a light – a small fire – in the middle of the field, in between the corn. And a horse. And there had to be a man there, too, because Geralt heard, though faintly, accompanying the sound of a lute, a melodic humming. It was a pleasant tune. Of course, he thought, stems breaking underneath his foot as he approached, that it might just as well be a woman with an exceptionally deep voice. But even for a man it was quite low and women with such deep voices usually paid mages to change them, but anyway, it didn’t matter, no one should be out in the middle of a field in a night like this.  
As he got closer to the hummer, he began to tread more carefully. The rustling of the wind and the rodents and the deer had disguised his footstep until now but they wouldn’t for much longer. And a musician, he thought, would have a fine ear. Though he could smell the scent of ale in the air, and it might have already worked in his favor, one couldn’t be too careful. There was no point in risking a fight when all he wanted was to give the man a place to sleep.  
There was a storm coming. It was only March and he’d been told it would bring snow. It would kill the fire and so it would a sleeping drunk and even if he weren’t too drunk to take note of it in time, it would wet his clothes and freeze them and make him sick, and it would surely slow his horse. The color of honey and grain, it was. Wearing an embroidered blanket in place of a saddle. Geralt smiled to himself as he untied his boots. So it was loved. All the more reason to make sure both had a comfortable place to sleep. When he’d finished taking off his boots, he tied them together by the laces and swung them over his right shoulder.  
And well. Geralt was past being unable to admit it to himself when he didn’t want to be alone. The company of a vagabond musician had never been unpleasant, although he’d never known one for longer than a night. He felt himself smile. 

“Don’t startle.”  
Of course he did anyway. The man, having sat cross legged in front of his fire, now whipped around and sprang up onto his feet. He almost stumbled backward into the flames in his shock. Luckily he caught himself in time. “Too late.” He said. He was breathing quite hard.  
He looked young – late twenties, Geralt thought. Though, on a second look, perhaps not for much longer. There were lines around his eyes that some kohl he must have put on several days ago had settled into. And smile lines by his mouth. He noticed that his curly hair was the same color as his horses coat. It reached past his shoulders. He was pretty, even as his hand reached for the knife on his belt.  
Geralt raised his empty hands before his chest and took a step back. “It’s all right.” He noted the sharp edge of a broken stem of hay or a twig dig into his heel and thought that he ought to have a look at it at home. It might have pierced his skin.  
The man exhaled a shaky breath and unsheathed his knife, eyes flicking from Geralt’s down to his shoulders. First to the left one, then to the right one. No doubt, he was considering if he would be able to take him in a fight. And no doubt he came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t. He stood up more straight. Geralt felt himself smile, again.  
“What do you want?” His accent was more English than Geralt’s own.  
“To find out what sort of person gives their horse a blanket instead of taking it for themselves.”  
The man’s lips set tight. “We’ve had a long journey.” He said. “She carried me all day. Deserves it more than I do. And the ground’s very warm. And I’ve got a fire. So I don’t really need it, anyway.”  
Geralt’s smile widened. A talker. Of course he was, if he was a singer. Probably born in mid July or August.  
He nodded. “I see. It won’t stay this warm for much longer, though.”  
The man looked uncertain. “Won’t it?”  
“No.”  
He was still holding the knife up in between them, pointed right at Geralt’s eye. It looked odd in his chubby hand. He was holding it as though he was planning to use it for engraving or cutting carrots, not for stabbing. He raised it, slightly, at Geralt, who pulled himself out of his contemplation. “No, it won’t.” He said. “There’s a storm coming. It’ll snow.”  
“It will?”  
Geralt nodded.  
“How do you know?”  
“A mage friend of mine told me.”  
“Huh.”  
“And you can kind of smell it, too.” He said, lifting his nose up into the air, not breaking eye contact. “If you really try.”  
The man sniffed into the wind, keeping his own gaze steady, too. His head jerked slightly to the left with every sniff.  
“Well, perhaps not over the fire. And the beer.”  
The man sighed. “What do you want?”  
“I was going to offer you a place to sleep.”  
“I don’t have any money.”  
“No? How come? Aren’t you a bard?”  
He huffed. “People don’t seem to enjoy music very much these days.”  
Geralt felt himself laugh. “Perhaps not the season for it. There is a war, after all.”  
“No time like war to need cheering up.”  
“That is true.” Geralt dropped his hands to his sides. “No time like war to need to spend your money on potatoes instead, though. For storing. And meat. I’m sure they still love to hear you sing.”  
“Well, that’s too kind. Point is, I can’t pay for a room. Can’t even pay for a bowl of soup right now, if I’m honest. So I won’t be needing your help.”  
“You won’t be needing any money.”  
The bard raised his knife higher, then, after a beat, and took another step back.  
“Careful-” Geralt heard himself say. “You’ll singe your frilly pants.”  
“I’m not that desperate.”  
It took a second for Geralt to understand what he was saying. He shook his head. “I won’t take any sort of payment.” He said. “I would just hate to let you freeze to death.”  
“Would you?”  
“Yes.”  
“You see, the trouble is, I don’t see what’s in it for you. And people rarely do anything when there’s not something in it for them.”  
“How about I was looking out of the window, contemplating the day I’d had, heard you sing and thought it was so lovely I’d better go have a look. And now I’d like to preserve your voice.”  
“Preserve my voice?” The man asked, his voice raising a few levels.  
Geralt laughed at himself. “That came out wrong.”  
“You think?”  
The man huffed.  
“Sorry.”  
“Who are you, anyway?”  
“I am Geralt of Rivia.”  
“Oh. Like the witcher?”  
Geralt just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes, like him.”  
“Well.” The man said. He began to lower his knife. “Perhaps I can write you a ballad in exchange for your room. Help restore your reputation, people in the village have been talking.”  
“Oh, have they?”  
“Yes. Very unkind things, they say.”  
“Is that so?”  
“It is.”  
“Well, then why would learning my name lead you to trust me more? If you’ve heard such bad things about me?”  
The man sighed. He put his knife back into the sheath on his belt. “Well, you see. People say that you’re clumsy. Socially. And sort of – well. Quiet. And a bit of an ass. But they also say you never kill or harm if you don’t have to – in fact I’ve heard a story about how you fought a striga in a dungeon for three days. Just to save her! When most others would have simply, you know.” He clicked his tongue and swiped his thumb in the air in front of his throat. “Had her head.”  
“Which I find merciful and heroic. If I’m honest. Nobel. Most others in the pub said it’s stupid. And unkind as well, they think that the girl will only suffer the trauma of all those murders for the rest of her life and hate herself and that she’ll die before she learns table manners, but. Well, nobody can possibly know that! It wasn’t her fault what she was born into. Maybe that’ll help her conscience, and maybe now she can at least find some form of peace before she dies! She’ll definitely be happy to have a warm, clean bed, and she’s certainly got all the resources to-”  
“It was one night.” Geralt said, closing his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy. The man didn’t lose his singer’s cadence even when he was only speaking. Very animated. And Geralt hadn’t had the nicest of days. “But thank you.”  
“What?”  
“I fought her for a night. Well, not even that, half of one. Well -” Geralt thought about it, shifting his weight onto the other foot. “Let’s say three quarters. It’s not important.”  
“But you didn’t kill her.”  
Geralt shook his head. “The king, her father, had asked me to save her. So I did.”  
“Probably made bank.”  
“Eh.”  
The man pulled up a brow. “I’ve also heard you saved a faun a few weeks ago up north, instead of killing it. The elves wanted it dead for stealing their corn.”  
“Well, I didn’t save him-”  
“You didn’t kill it. Even though they were gonna pay you for it.”  
Geralt nodded.  
“Is it true you rode with it for three hours and well into the night when you finally caught it, to somewhere it could be safe? And eat all the corn it wants? Without any payment at all?”  
“No.” Geralt said, feeling confused. The bard’s face fell. “I didn’t. I had them make a deal – it’s not important. The no payment bit’s correct though.”  
“Well, anyway.” The man continued, blinking himself out of his confusion. “People are calling you an idiot for it.”  
“Are they?” Geralt sighed.  
“They are. So, you know. If someone, say, with the golden voice of an early dawn in summer-” Geralt laughed at him, as good as he could with how tired he was, “were to re-frame these very heroic acts, put them into the right sort of light, it might help you out.”  
“Sure.” Geralt took his shoes off his shoulder. “If that’s what it’ll take to get you out this field before the storm starts.”  
“Don’t you think it would be handy to have a better relationship with your possible employers?”  
Geralt sighed again. He took the shoelaces he’d tied the shoes together with between his thumb and forefinger and ran them over the knot so that it fell open. The man made an impressed face and watched him closely as he set the boots down on the grass.  
“Yes.” Geralt said, although he really didn’t care. “Why not.”  
People either met him and made up their own minds, or they didn’t. Begging, he’d found, in whatever form, only made things painful. But he understood that the bard had to wager something for his safety. “You’ll have the downstairs bedroom. I’ll find you the key so you can lock the door.” He stepped into his boots and lowered himself onto one knee so he could tie his shoelaces.  
“Oh.” Said the man. “Well. That’s exceedingly considerate.” He watched him for a moment and finally came a couple of steps closer, stretching out his hand. “I’m Jaskier.” Geralt watched a corner of his mouth twitch up into a smile when he shook his hand. It was smart, to only come close when he was on his knees. Geralt had a feeling that caution hadn’t been the point.  
“Nice to meet you, Jaskier.”  
“Likewise.”

Geralt was fairly certain he’d made the right decision when he saw Jaskier gently pet his horses snout, speaking to it as if it understood him. “Oh, I know.” He said. “Making you walk, again, after I promised you you wouldn’t have to take another step the rest of the day. I should be shot. But I’m sure the nice man has a stable where you’ll be safe from the snow.”  
Jaskier turned to Geralt, who nodded.  
“See, I knew it. I would like to see Sarafier even try to take such good care of you. He could never. You should be happy you’re with me now.”  
“Did you steal that horse?”  
“We shan’t speak of it.”  
Geralt smiled. He could see himself become quite close with this man. In theory, of course. It would likely only be a night or two. 

“I didn’t know witchers had such nice houses.” Jaskier said, craning his head around the place as he was kicking off his shoes. Geralt watched him drop his pack right on top of them and closed the door, shaking his head a little.  
“They don’t. And neither do I.”  
He dug around his pockets for the keys.  
“You could say I’m house sitting.”  
Jaskier turned around from where he was messing with his things, his eyes wide. “Oh, don’t tell me the owners are gagged and bound in the basement.”  
“No. The owners, save for their son, who was too sick to travel, won’t be here for another four days.”  
“I didn’t know witchers … babysat?”  
“We don’t -”  
“And neither are you?”  
Geralt nodded, smiling, despite how much he was dreading this conversation. “And neither am I.” He locked the door. “I will keep the key in the lock. Just don’t want anybody breaking in. Or for the wind to open the door.”  
Jaskier nodded.  
“But if the fancy so strikes you, there’s a window in the bedroom you can escape out of at any time day or night.”  
Jaskier was squinting at him. “I can’t tell whether you’re making fun of me.”  
“Hm.” Geralt said. “I’m not. Not really, anyway.”  
Jaskier nodded.  
“So. What are you doing here?”  
He took his jacket off, revealing something that Geralt could not in good faith call a shirt – it was a blouse. Cream colored, frillier even than his pants. It did suit him very well with his blonde hair and the flush on his cheeks, but it looked awfully thin. He dropped the jacket down onto his bags and put both his hands on his hips, waiting, as if it weren’t horribly rude to just throw ones things around a stranger’s home.  
“Are you hungry?”  
“Yes, I am, if I’m honest.”  
“Please be.”  
Geralt heard him laugh softly behind himself as he followed him into the kitchen. “Are you not telling me that story, then? It’s fine, just making sure you didn’t forget. Cause I would like to hear it.”  
“Oh.”  
“You know, for the ballad and all.”  
Geralt shook his head.  
“They called upon me because they had spirits in here that were plaguing the child.”  
“Did you get rid of them?”  
“I do believe so.”  
“Oh, so how’s the kid? Exhausted, I assume? Should we be quiet?” He continued in a softer voice. “Was it like an exorcism? Like you hear in those stories from Italy?”  
Geralt felt a pit in his stomach. He swallowed around the nausea in his throat and took a bowl off one of the shelves the house owners had allowed him access to. “He didn’t survive.”  
“What?”  
Geralt didn’t say anything else.  
“How hungry are you?”  
“Oh. Pretty hungry.”  
“Hungry enough to eat cold soup, or do you want me to heat it?”  
“Oh, no. No time for that.”  
Geralt nodded. “There’s bread as well, somewhere. Help yourself.”  
“I will, thank you.”  
They were quiet as Geralt was filling the bowl.  
“Did the boy die of the spirits, or the sickness?”  
When he was done, Geralt put the ladle back into the pot, and then he put the lid back on. It had a little notch for the handle to fit into. He watched the lid slip into the ridge of the pot, where it was supposed to go, and closed his eyes for a moment before he turned back around to face his guest. “Both, I believe.”  
“Not strong enough to fend off the spirits?”  
Geralt nodded.  
“Do the parents know yet?”  
“No. It only happened today.”  
Geralt set the bowl down on the table in front of Jaskier and took a seat in the chair to his left, along the long side of the table. “Eat.”  
Jaskier picked up the spoon, but didn’t. “How old was he?”  
Geralt felt himself start to chew on the inside of his bottom lip. He’d been trying to kick that habit for years, he’d been told it made him look like a sulking child and even if that might not be true, every time he found himself do it, he remembered being told that, and it wasn’t such a pleasant memory. He had even succeeded, for a while. In stopping. But every time something happened that he couldn’t handle, it just came back. He traced his tongue along the edge of his lip. The skin there was uneven with scar tissue.  
“Geralt?”  
Geralt startled out of his contemplation and looked at Jaskier’s big, sad eyes. He was still just holding the spoon in his hand. He should have heated the soup. Potato soup wasn’t good as it were and cold, there was really nothing redeemable about it.  
“You don’t have any bread.”  
“Oh. Yeah. Forgot.”  
“Do you not want it?”  
“I would like some bread, yeah.” He seemed oddly sober. Geralt was starting to realize how tired he really was, looking at him. He still got back up to get the bread basket and while he was up, since he wasn’t alone anymore, he got the wine as well.  
“I’m sure you did your best.” Jaskier said, chewing. He didn’t look that hungry anymore now and Geralt was more or less sure he was only eating out of politeness.  
“Do you want me to heat it up? It’ll be better warm.”  
“It’s alright. Just a bit shocked now, is all.”  
Geralt nodded.  
“He was five.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yes. So it doesn’t really matter whether I did my best. Doesn’t make it any less unacceptable that he died.”  
Jaskier nodded. “Yeah, of course.”  
They sat in silence for a while.  
“I shouldn’t have told you that story.”  
“No, it’s alright.” Jaskier cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t expect it from my delicate appearance, but I can handle a lot.” He said, and the stupid wink he did would have at least made Geralt laugh at him weren’t he so tired. He still gave him a smile.  
“Sorry. Inappropriate.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“I won’t be able to think of any song lyrics now, though, with the ghost of a dead child going around my head and all.”  
“That’s alright. I don’t think I’m in the mood for music anyway.”  
“Really? Might be comforting.”  
“I think I’ll have a bath.”  
Jaskier nodded. He looked down at his soup. “I might heat this up, actually.”  
“Yeah. I’m not much of a cook. Do you know how?”  
Jaskier dropped his head to the side and shot him a look. “Yes, I know how.”  
“Well, don’t burn the house down.”  
“I might put some salt in, if you don’t mind.”  
Geralt laughed that time, and nodded, already on his way upstairs. “Knock yourself out.”


End file.
